The sonnets of the Phantom Antagonist

Back in 2005, the mysterious Phantom Antagonist sent a number of sonnets from a longer sonnet sequence (untitled) to the online literary magazine, the 'Dead Letter Office'. That publication is now sadly defunct, but the three sonnets which were sent to the magazine (two of which were published, one suppressed owing to the strength of language used) are now republished here, with the permission of the author. He has only ever disclosed his true identity once, and I cannot say whether he wishes to do so again; it's up to him. Anyway, here are the poems, love sonnets for the 21st century (originally written in late 2001).



1

Oh no, she is no Venus praised in song,
But she is fair, fine-looking, sure enough;
Her eyes are orbs of beauty, all that stuff;
But she’s no goddess. Oh, don’t get me wrong:
She has a glance that, when ’tis caught, ’tis fair,
Fairer than all the smiles I’ve ever got;
A page-three model though? That she is not,
And sure enough most men won’t stop and stare.
But when the stark suffusing light from dawn
(Or night’s supplied effulgence) glares upon
Her eyes I see (that do not see me), gone
Are all the doubts, the questionings and scorn
That once my praise and reverence did contain,
And I must praise, although I praise in vain.


5


This too shall pass—all passes in the end,
And nothing lasts forever, least of all
Love with his beauteous power to offend,
And self-obsessing soul-destroying call;
No, love is something that will vanish first,
So long before these bones and stuff are gone;
If love’s a curse, then well I’m bloody cursed,
But this is one curse that won’t linger on.
No doubts at all can I therefore possess:
Like prisoners, I wait for light of day,
For soon I’ll be relieved of my distress
And then be free to go my private way:
This brief obsession, and this vain affront
Shall pass away, and what a load of cunt.


9


There is a thing that I can never have:
It dances like a leaf in autumn wind
About me when I sleep; and when I shave;
And vexes me when many lines I’ve binned;
Today there stands no girl upon the grass,
No golden tresses there for me to run
My fingers through, and so the years must pass
Out into oblivion as all before have done.
Yet no, if I must be alone, then I
Must (at the least) pretend to be okay,
And live alone today, and then must die
(Which all must do) and be some dust for aye.
It does not matter how I really feel,
For vision and illusion are what’s real.